Image from Trent Olson (or Olsen- didn’t go back to check) Facebook page. One dude (guessing, not being snarky) won’t pull up his wettie (Australian influenced jargon) until the water is genital level (I agree with this cold water adjustment strategy), the other dude don’t need no stinkin’ (and they usually are- with or without urinary help) booties, and, wait, are those both soft-tops? Wavestorming Cape Kawanda.
I have been critical of the spot in the past, one of the few places in the northwest with multiple web cams. But I have checked it out. Yes, I called it the ‘pull back’ capital, did remark on how (and this is typical of west coast beach breaks) the outside sets, mushy or not, closeout or not, lead one to the inside double-ups, most of them crashing closeouts. Yes, I have wondered why one weekend day there’s only a few adult learners jumping into the re-forms, getting thrashed, popping up prematurely, but still claiming victory for the relatives on the beach; and sometimes, same conditions, there’s hordes of heroes and villains vying for evrery three second ride.
Good Luck; I have to go; I’ll check back. Later.
I do have to go to work. erwin@realsurfers.net
realsurfersdotnet on the Gram.
News on the literary front. Coming soon. You know, like the next swell.
It’s been a long while since I competed in any surf contest other than the de facto, any time it’s crowded, sessions. Yes, there are judges, always, the self judge being thhe one most susceptible to bribery and/or choosing sentimentality over reality. Speed, power, flow? Not always. Best two rides out of however many I could snag, steal, or even, have priority and etiquette on my side.
There are some Olympic Peninsula regulars (NOTE- Not all live here) who compete in these events. I should mention Z. I don’t know his actual name, and don’t think I’ve ever met him, but he delivers stuff for one off the non-Amazon companies in the Port Townsend area, and my friend, Keith Darrock, runs into him fairly frequently. He’s a past winner in his age category at Cape Kawanda (at least), and, most recently, told Keith he spent some time in the Mentawais, ‘practicing,’ or, as they say iin the WSL, ‘working.’ Yeah, Z’s fired up!
Keith is down in Westport, taking in the vibe. I have requested some photos. So far, I got texts saying Surf Route 101 was jammed, yesterday, the HAMA HAMA BANJO-RAMA also happening; and one saying a lot of Wavestorms were heading toward the coast. These events do have a bit of a circus flavor, not that the parking lot/bathroom-shower facility, bluff aren’t always a hotbed for kook-to-wannabes-to pissed off locals-to tourists snd posers. WHO DOESN’T LOVE A CIRCUS?
Hawaiian Brian, just after he won his division at Cape Kawanda last year. Or the year before. He did have his trophy with him, out onb the Strait… working.
Me, in the brownish hoodie, at the judges’ table a few years back. TOM BURNS got me the spot, and, because I judged rides as I saw them, and because I was loud, and because everyone except the head judge was having way too much fun, and despiite the fact I tried way harder on Sunday to behave and go along with the expected scoring, I was not invited back. Either was Tom, BUT, time and all, I do believe Tom is judging this weekend. I’m afraid to call and possibly disturb him.
A rented 40 FOOT LADDER was required to complete the stain job on this charming cottage: Taken just after I got off the roof (explaining the slight unevenness). There is a story about the high ladder woodworking I did to correct what high level woodpeckers damaged.
Can this tire be saved? There is a story involving a post Seahawks victory, late night blowout, a very steep spot where the car ended up, no phone coverage (luckily texts went through), the car falling off and wrecking the jack, another rescue from my daughter, Dru, and a successful switch to the temporary tire by ADAM WIPEOUT JAMES, the person I bought the car from, though, ater fixing the brakes he had no obligation to help.
It’s another in a long history of ERWIN BREAKS DOWN stories. When I told it to Librarian Keith, he was not properly impressed by the drama. He was checking the surf, it wasn’t exactly Alexander Dumas, or even Tom Clancy storytelling, and it doesn’t make me appear as anything other than kind of helpless, so… maybe later, maybe on the surf trip I promised Adam and included Keith. Wondering if I’ll have to find a new rim is keeping me… anxious.
I am working on some other stuff, and after a summer-long drought, and despite it still being painting season, it is raining. Is there hope for the wave pattern to switch? Yes. Why should California get all the waves?
erwin@realsurfers.net
realsurfersdotnet on the InstaGram
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net Get some waves!
Reality versus perception. Whether one focuses on some dreamy, blissful time bobbing in the beauty of the ocean; or imagines entering the high intensity, frightening, high risk, big wave scenario; or one longs to be part of the scene on the beach; anger and frustration are not a large part of the construct.
But crowds and near impossible paddle outs, closeouts and drop in change the image, push one toward reality: Surfing well is not easy.
One could get angry. One could lash out. Surf Rage, something beyond A sense of resentment toward those scoring bombs and non-bomb set waves could become the reality.
Or one, and count me as one, could work out the pre surf anticipation and adrenaline peak by picking up a few scraps. Basically, by chilling the fuck out!
Photo by Keith Darrock
Meanwhile, with a lot going on in my life, I tell myself that the next opportunity for me to surf will have me taking my time, patiently waiting, perfectly willing to let a wave go to another, congratulating others on mediocre rides, sharing my gratitude for just being in the water.
That is the plan. The reality is this: I rarely surf angry. I always surf hard. The pent up feelings that have me thinking about surfing, next time, ruthlessly, don’t typically play out. Froth and rage are related, not twin emotions.
But, next time isn’t here yet. Yet.
I am writing this on my tablet. There’s A connection issue with my big boy computer. Frustrating. Yet, I am so so so chill.
UPDATES- NONE at the moment- Saturday, July 18.BUT…
Skip Frye and I, Skip Frye and Me- Several Anecdotes
INTRO-
A sudden, not-going-to-last obsession with classic surfer Skip Frye was triggered by an episode of “Pinch my Salt” showing up on YouTube. I’m fine watching a snippet of the pretty smarmy Sterling Spencer, but I’m never ready to spend an hour plus watching… anyone. This is what fast forward is for.
This episode promised an interview with Skip; but it did start without him. So, fast forward; though I had to watch a portion where Sterling claimed someone ‘picked his pocket.’ It turned out to be a not unusual ‘chat and steal.’ One of my standard moves. Or so I’ve been told.
Then, on to the interview. If someone personifies an eighty-three-year-old lifetime (not Skip’s, probably yours) San Diego surfer, no one better fills the role than Mr. Frye. The hosts were respectful, though Skip was pushed to say something negative about soft tops (he said someone gave him one, but he’d never ride it), surfers who put their names on popouts (almost did because Donald Takayama wanted him to make some real money, but died before it might, or might not have happened), and modern surfing competition, the toughest and truest thing he would say, though he did contests, is that the one winner ruthlessness takes something away from what is often referred to as soul surfing.
Skip, who tries to turn out six boards a week, none cheap, all highly sought after, is still the epitome of soul. Surfing or otherwise.
The other guy on the podcast, Sterling’s cousin Ryan Spencer, asked the viewers to pleas be nice to Skip in the comments. I checked. Not a negative comment in the bunch, and, when Skip pulled out a harmonica at the end and played a mellow version of, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” well, people broke into tears. Or so they said.
TAMARACK, 1965-
My family (seven kids, our mom) was parked in the lower lot, as always. I was a total beginner/kook, just switching over from mat to board. I was probably still sharing my older sister’s (Suellen’s) 9’4” stock Hobie. There had been some sort of contest. Surfers and their entourages were loading up, ready to head home. “Skip was robbed!” “Skip should’ve won!”
I have this image, real or not, in my permanent files: A blond-haired guy shrugging off the comments meant to reassure him.
PACIFIC BEACH, SAN DIEGO- 1971-1973- Later. I gotta go. But, coming… STEALING a design from TOM MOREY, surfing from Tourmaline to Crystal Pier ala Skip, finding nuggets in a crowded lineup, soul arching, ala Skip, just for the fun of it.
The Morey-Pope WATERSKATE, produced by Gordon & Smith; probably shaped by SKIP FRYE.
ULTRA CLASSIC TRIO- Photo by RON STONER, MICHAEL HYNSON paddling out, and SKIP (never not in trim) SKIP FRYE soul arching at THE RANCH.
I want to stress that I have been doing some research on this stuff. I have always been intrigued by the Hynson/Frye friendship, partially because they seem like such different individuals. If I give Hynson a lot of credit for downrail surfboards, prove me wrong. It was interesting to learn, from the podcast, that they were riding boards Michael had shaped for the 1966 Duke Kahanamoku contest. Cool.
I included these as part of my resume’, that part of my submission for the mural project at the Seamus Skate Park in Port Townsend. It’s, top to bottom: Original sign on 101 originally done as a (winning) entry in a post card contest at the Quilcene Village Store; rainbow on. gable of house on San Juan in Port Townsend; stripes and lettering in Quilcene gymnasium; surfboard and panel in Joel Carben’s collection; fence at PT’s Memorial Field; repaint of mural on Peninsula Foods; original. mural on. the Quilcene. Historical Museum.
Restricted in the number of images, this was the entire portfolio, with, of course, stories.
I did write some stuff, because having a connection to the skater community seemed to be part of what the deciders were looking for, revealing my last century street/skate cred. Skateboarding, for a kid twenty miles from Oceanside Pier, slaloming down the hills of Fallbrook, was so much a part of my surfing that… Yeah, I’ll get back to you on that, including my experience, in my twenties, living in Pacific Beach, San Diego, with the resurgence of skateboarding.
MEANWHILE, I’ve added another page to cover stories and dreams I really enjoy writing about. Check it out. I keep talking to strangers, keep dreaming, so… more stories.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
InstaGram- realsurfersdotnet
Trish Update- Slow recovery, stronger everyday. If she has some chemo fog, so do I. Fuck Cancer!
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net, see. you out on Surf Route 101!
I’m almost finished with this sign down Linger Longer Road in Quilcene. Suddenly, the town on Surf Route 101 I’ve lived in almost 48 years, is hip, cool; hip and cool go there. On purpose. And, with rich folks building mansions on Olympic foothill acreage, there has been an influx of a young demographic.
You can cruise on the massive, wonder of a bridge, just opened, that goes over the remodeled lower stretch of the Big Quilcene River/flood plain, cruise along the mud flats of Quilcene Bay (filled in at high tide with water warm enough in summer to allow swimming sans wetsuit), and, just before you get to the oyster hatchery and Herb Beck Marina, check it out. Am I trying to blow up the spot? Maybe.
If Surfing Fills a Hole…
If surfing fills a hole in your life, possibly in your soul; if your self-image and the image you’ve worked for and work to project is that of a person who surfs, a surfer, with any and all of the real or romanticized attributes given, and appreciated even by the most random, holiday surfer; if you live for and lust after waves, fun-sized to crazy to death barrels; if you are that person, and you can’t surf for a while, as in longer than it took for you to recover from this or that medical setback, or a work or situation-caused injury that required time away from waves; if you cannot surf… what fills that hole?
Stories of past glories are not enough. Enough retellings of even the most mundane tales of riding spots now incredibly crowded on even an average day sound exaggerated. Or worse. Even surfers your age might question whether your authenticity. Young surfers will dismiss you and your tales, just as you put little faith in the stories told by people over thirty when you were under twenty.
Still, people riding emptier lineups, even on pre-revolution boards… that’s something. Memories have value. Times edits out those that don’t.
Yeah. I’m writing about surfing instead of doing more surfing. I have excuses and explanations and situations, and, mostly, or partially, I have a lot of other things I have to do; most of which interfere with other things I want to do.
Surfing is on the ‘want to do’ list. There is that hole, that desire.
“When I was younger,” a sentence begging to be ignored or half-listened to begins, I was critical of surfers who weren’t frothing to go out on waves I couldn’t resist. But then, and now, I tried to adjust my life, or, at least, my schedule, to allow the opportunity, and, non-epic waves, enough of them, with, maybe, that one sneaker barrel… worth it.
Most of my contemporaries are not surfing. Kudos to the ones who are.
A good friend, legendary (I try not to over or misuse that description) gave up (not ‘quit’) surfing a few years ago. Bad shoulders, bad knees, crowds. Age. Mix and match. He told me that he says, if asked, that he loves surfing, always will, but, luckily, he has a lot of other activities and responsibilities that keep him occupied. He may have said fulfilled.
Still, I have seen other, most-likely retired folks, and this was a while ago, at Pipes, hanging on the fence, looking at other surfers paddle and bob and blow takeoffs and ride awkwardly, and I thought how lucky they were. Then Ray and I walked down and paddled out.
The hole. I am fond of thinking that it’ll always be there, as filled in as best I could; still anticipating the next session.
Lucky me.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
Instagram- realsurfersdotnet
Check out the other Pages, including the newly-added PAGE VI, a collection of my original art works. I have been working on a collection of poetry/songs/stories, with a plan to publish it. Soon.
I have a new copyright for “Swamis,” the novel, mostly because I’vve gotten a bit more protective, partially because it is so different than the draft currently copyrighted. The above story is, as all original works by me, protected under copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Get some waves, make some memories, live your own story.
“YEAH; NO KINGS !”A photo from Desert Point. DISCLAIMER- Not sure of the circumstance. Maybe it was payback, maybe this guy enjoys a party wave more than the GOAT. Now, I am not in any way pushing for drop-ins of the punitive nature, particularly by newby shoulder hoppers, but… sometimes… I don’t know, maybe Kelly wasn’t adhering to a priority system lesser mortals are expected to adhere to. I get that. OH, and… the dude down the line is probably causing a chandelier situation, so… fun.
Too much to unpack here. A bigger board doesn’t make one Kinglier, evidently. Is the one guy trying to party down? Is the scrapper about to get run down? Is this wave kind of… weak? Is the Dude in the Waikiki pose, obviously trying to remember step number three (Don’t pearl)? Is he wearing a spring suit, with hood, And a knee brace? Is the Dude in the ‘I’m driving down the line’ pose actively reconsidering his latest switch from crypto to betting on how many American service people will be dead or wounded in the latest War/escapade/evasion? Which way is the guy immediately outside the wave looking? Is the guy who is watching thankful he didn’t go on this wave? Is there surf in Cuba? Is stupid catchy? Are there any people in Congress with any integrity (I have my list of more or totally courageous folks, it’s America, you are still free to chose yours)?
GEORGE WASHINGTON, ‘PRESIDING’ at the Constitutional Convention, May of 1787, sending out some gang signs to the other old, bewigged, most-likely slave-owning white men. Loosely translated, it was, “If we play our cards right, this experiment might last, I postulate and do herein claim, two-hundred-and-fifty years; perhaps more. And if some charlatan/montebank/swindler/huckster even attempts to become a, dare I say, King; the PEOPLE will not stand for this brazen effrontery. Congress and the Courts will live up to their sworn vows, perform their sacred duties. The People, I tell you, will, shall, must PREVAIL! And now… now; I hear there’s a buffet. Line forms to the left. Let’s GO!
Some (not all) credits- History.com, El Pais in English, Pittsburg Gazette- from today
I keep putting off what I keep telling myself I will write about: How snow activities are so much better than surfing. Now, with the last ski bus heading to the Cascades for the last of the snow, it’s almost too late. Still, it’s coming. Soon.
CONTACT erwin@realsurfers.net
I have promised myself I will put in some time on finishing my novel, “Swamis.” I keep coming up with new ideas for the story’s climax.
HOW MY BRAIN WORKS (OR DOESN’T)- Earlier today, scrolling on the YouTube, I saw something explaining people who can’t remember other people’s name (but, saving grace, remember stories involving that person, or, in my case, nicknames). Okay. So I’m writing the paragraph immediately above this one, and I can’t think of word for the ending of a novel. CONCLUSION? Maybe, but there’s no way “Swamis” is going to end with anything less than a cliffhanger. Next novel? “Grandview.” I look conclusion up. Not exactly right. I’m thinking, “What’s a word that is a synonym for orgasm?” I look up ORGASM. Climax is a choice. I look up CLIMAX. One choice of definitions in Merriam-Webster mentioned a series of phrases or sentences in ascending order of rhetorical forcefullness. “Oh, so it’s like the third wave of a four wave set.” Yeah. That. That’s where I want the ending of my novel to be.
We’ll see. I posted another Original Erwin song, with harmonica, on the Instagram. Check out REALSURFERSDOTNET to see and hear my third or fouth attempt to do a one take version of “Before the Wind Comes Up.” I am going to try to do a decent version of “Another Lie, Another War.” I will let you know. Surf if you can, Snow it up while you can. FUCK CANCER! FUCK A BUNCH OF. FASCISTS! Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
IT isn’t some brilliant or sudden or unique thought that driving in traffic is very much like surfing in a crowded lineup. Still, I have some thoughts.
Photo from San Diego Surf School.
FUCKERS cut you off; DICKWADS on oversized boards drop in way outside of you; over stimulated shortboard PUNKS backpaddle and drop in, at the last moment, with you obviously desiring a certain wave; oblivious ADULT LEARNERS blindly paddle for the shoulder on a wave you might, just possibly, thrash; BACKOFF BOBS and BETTYS add a chandelier to a section you would have made; a PACK OF possibly local, definitely friends act as a TEAM/GANG to dominate a peak, blocking your attempts to crack the lineup… EVEN WHEN you are SO, SO patient, respectful, almost ready to forget your hard earned sense of dignity and beg for just ONE chance, ONE non-set, not-a-bomb wave. Looking around the playing field at the greedy movers and shakers, the ‘just-happy-to-be-out-here’ enthusiasts; checking out and the seemingly omnipresent surf-adjacent crew of onlookers, color commentators, judges, cheerleaders, coaches, filmers; are they pleased that you’re frustrated? Fuck, yeah, and fuck you; maybe next time you’ll bring your own crew. OR…
from MUMMY TALES, a wordpress site/blog.
THE GREAT EQUALIZER- Not talking Colt 45 here, or any violent road rage insanity, and it’s not an avocado-to-mango comparison, but ANY MOTORIZED VEHICLE (even hybrid or electric) is capable of doing the same maneuvers as your ride of choice, attain the same speeds as your work rig or your Camry; and, additionally, a motorcycle (or Vespa or overpowered electric bike) can weave through lane changes and backups way better than a jacked-up, offroad diesel burning MAN truck, the modern incarnation of a Corvette, regardless of how many lights and wenches and flags and scary decals the man-mobile is sporting. ANYONE’S GRANDMA in a coupe, even without a spoiler and noisy muffler, any WHIMP, regardless of party or sexual affiliation, can cut you off in the collector/distributer lane, whip into the parking spot at Costco that, though not close to the entrance, is (was) close to a cart return. OH, IF ONLY you had a handicapped sticker.
SIGNALS- Yes, it is still rude to be yelling, “MY WAVE, MINE, MINE, MINE!!!” However, it is sometimes helpful to signal your intensions. Subtly. Softly. “Excuse me, but I am going on the second wave of the incoming set. Feel free to discuss the first wave among yourselves. And… Did you not hear me? My wave… mine, mine, MINE!!!!!”
5/10/2011 – Jay Janner/AMERICAN-STATESMAN – Emily McLean is stuck in a traffic jam on Colorado Street after President Barack Obama gave a speech at ACL Live at the Moody Theater on Tuesday May 10, 2011. She got stuck waiting to turn onto Cesar Chavez Street. The street was closed for about half an hour for the president’s motorcade. NOTE- I liked the photo.
THE FULL HAND FLIPOFF- Here’s how this civilized screed (I’m not checking if it can be both a screed and civilized) came to be: I have this bad habit of not using my car’s turn signals. This is how my daughter Dru and I decided it was her driving Trisha’s Highlander when a traffic camera in Poulsbo caught it running a light. Signals. Still, I, as the registered owner, got the ticket. In the mail. I thought it was a scam. No. They want real money. SO,
I’m in a hurry, going from here to there in Port Townsend. Not that I’m ever not in a hurry (when I’m behind the wheel. MAYBE, slight interjection, when I’m on my way home from surfing. SO, I make a left onto a busy street over by the school with the pool and the food bank on Wednesdays. It may or may not have been a Wednesday, but, as I’m making a right hander onto San Juan, I notice a woman, evidently waiting to turn left from San Juan, in a dark car. She is raising her left hand up, fingers spread. The back her hand is up near or against the window. As I ease around the corner, I can’t help but focus on the woman and the gesture. Was she waving? Do I know her? No. She may or may not have smacking the back of her hand against the window, but her frustration was obvious. Or should have been.
WHILE I’M THINKING ABOUT all this; you know when there’s some reason, known or unknown, for a backup, and the right lane is moving faster, relying on the kindness of strangers to let them in at the last moment? Well, I have been known to position my vehicle in such a position that these late mergers can’t, cannot merge. Similarly, I have either yelled out, “GO… whoever” when another surfer is about to be dropped in on (again) AND/OR I have blocked a shoulder hopper. Not that this is any way noble. I have had surfers cut across my bow (sailor lingo) to keep me off a wave.
Be patient, be safe. It’s only surfing, or traffic, or any situation in which a horde is keeping you from that which you desire. Now I’m thinking about checkout lines and Disneyland and imagining an empty lineup with wonderful waves and… no, I’m back to remembering the full hand flip off. Deserved. Sorry, Ma’am.
I HAVE BEEN offering an incorrect email address. erwin@realsurfers.net will work. Don’t be afraid.
SURFWISE- There may or may not have been waves in this off most charts zone. As always. It is March, coming in, as the poets say, ‘like a lion.’ Wind, surprise snow, generally crappy weather. The snow is happening. While several of the local Olympic Peninsula surfers are elsewhere, including Chimacum Tim in some exotic spot close to Epstein’s Island. Surfer/snowboarders are hitting the slopes. I will have more on how snowboarding and skiing are better than surfing NEXT TIME.
MEANWHILE, try really hard to relax. Yes, it’s a lot of work staying calm, not freaking the fuck out. Try a mantra, repeated until your mind if free from panic-inflaming reality. This might not be proper, but you can use mine: NOTHING, NOThing, NOthing, nothing, nothing… nothing… …nothing… AH!
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy… All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy All work and no play make… You can’t handle the truth! No. Wait. All work and no play make… Chinatown… No, no, it’s… you see, it’s like this: I… No, no. All work and no play… no play… no… nothing, nothing, nothing. Not a damn thing. You got that? No? Okay. Nothing, nothing, nothingnothingnothing.
My cat, TONY, destroying a corner of my drawing table, and NAM SIU and I (no, not my sprinter van, but, yes, a sprinter van) taken recently. Nam has been recovering from a horrific illness in which he lost a significant percentage of his body fat. When I saw him a while back, I, of course, asked him (in my usual friendly way) if he HAD TO gain it all back and more at one time. I sort forced him to get a photo taken with before he loses the weight, which I have no doubt he will. I have no illness-related explanation of or excuse for my weight-to-head size, BUT, hey, I have to say… yeah, I look pretty good.
Nam’s once and current diet.
UNNECESSARILY DEEP PSYCHOLOGICAL STUFF
Wait! No! The Superbowl was, like, two weeks ago, the next season is… a ways away. The swells from the atmospheric rivers are pumping waves somewhere, but not into the oddly tilted Strait of Juan de Fuca, and the forecast is kind of bleak. What now?
I choose this design by JUNAARTFOUND because the tagline said something about ‘Sublimation.’ This is a word I can never think of when I’m thinking of how we substitute (re-channel is probably more accurate) our own desires (some of which are of a… pardon me… sexual nature) into something else. Like, maybe, sports. There are other outlets for the tensions that, some evidence shows, humans seem to be cursed, or blessed with. Prayer and denial are popular. Repression. Sure. Violence, real or imagined, is, obviously, one way to control or burn our lust, bloodlust or whatever-lust. Video games and John Wick movies; there are choices other than signing up to join ICE
Psychology 101 taught me, if little else, that all lusts seek to eliminate themselves. Hunger-eat, for example. The philosophical followup is that being full, satiated, only lasts so long. There is something that tastes better than a perfect strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. Maybe. There is a wave riding experience beyond the most perfect ride we can remember.
So we continue the search.
AS I WRITE THIS, I’m feeling a bit apologetic for getting too deeply into all this. Too late. We all have tensions and stressors. We all need outlets. I have been accused, at least once, of being repressed. A bit surprising to me since my emotions seem easily read, and I’m also accused of being filterless, of saying what I’m thinking before I think about what I’m saying. YEAH, okay, I’ll say I am. There’s more I don’t say. I have fears that go beyond my family and my friends. Fear leads directly and quickly to anger. I have anger issues stemming from tragedies and horrors I cannot stop, or even lessen. I have also been described as having an inadequate amount of empathy. I have enough to feel for those who do.
I DEVOTE A LOT of my energy to not panicking to not freaking the fuck out.
Writing is one of my de-stressors, a place where I can push my fear of speaking out, the boundaries of my repression, peacefully, knowing that even if I write what I consider the perfect turn of phrase, the perfect rebuttal to those who push the hateful lies and seek protection (or actively protect) from accountability for the most heinous acts, it won’t be enough. I won’t be satisfied for long.
TO BRING THIS BACK to surfing; one of the oft-spoken values is that one can forget everything else and move in the cosmic wonderfulness. FACT CHECK- Yes, this happens. If the goal is to move through the changing crowds and conditions without panicking or freaking the fuck out, and surf until you’re exhausted enough that you don’t care who gets that wave you might have surfed better, congratulations. If you got a ride to put into your near-perfect file… that’s probably as good as it gets.
CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
INSTAGRAM (mostly original songs with harmonica)- realsurfersdotnet
THE video, “ERWIN” is now on my ABOUT page. If you haven’t seen it… check it out.
‘SWAMIS’ UPDATE- I’m up to, like, page 200, of 226, on what I hope to be my final edit before someone has the good sense to publish the novel.
PAGE II- NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. There is an update concerning why anyone would feel compelled to give a shit about kid rock.
THANKS for checking out my blog. See out on SURF ROUTE 101.
Me, with hearing aids, and Dru’s ginger cat, NICHOLAS, aka Sam Darnold.
DYLAN SCOTT, the son of TRISHA’S brother and his wife, JIM and GREER (note how inclusively proper I’m being), sent me this shot of him surfing at a spot he (and SURFLINE, to whom [whom because corporations are people, too] he pays a possibly significant monthly fee) identify as “GEORGE’S.
It is obvious, at 9:53 or so on SUPERBOWL SUNDAY, that goofyfoot Dylan has the green light in his favor as well as a reduced crowd because all the North San Diego County surf enthusiasts were, no doubt, pulling avocados off the trees to prepare a satisfying snack. WHAT wasn’t obvious to me, when I was checking out the photo on the phone, in bed (after a game that was probably boring [other than the half time show] for everyone who wasn’t a SEAHAWKS or, you know that other team fan, with us [Seahawks fans] absolutely riveted/worried, clutching our skittles, and oysters, and rosary beads, and listening to STEVE RAIBLE and DAVE WYMAN on the radio because we just don’t trust or like commentary from CHRIS COLLINGSWORTH)… exhausting… what wasn’t obvious to me was, where the hell is George’s. SO, I texted Dylan.
Evidently George’s is on the section of beach between CARDIFF REEF and SEASIDE TRAILER REEF, both of which, according to my research on the GRAM, were going off on this day. SO, I had to do more texting, the you-really-don’t-want-to-hear “Back in my day” stories, bearing in mind that I started surfing the North County beaches beyond Oceanside Pier and Tamarack in 1965, and left the area in late 1978. “Just in time” you might say. “Yes. I hear it has become more crowded.”
SO, Dylan, ya see, that part of the beach, in the mid seventies, when I lived in Encinitas, was called STRETCHMARK BEACH. This was, according to the hipster who hipped me to it, because, paraphrasing here, “Surf chicks who, like, had babies, they would take them there rather than, you know, other spots.” However rude and inappropriate, I stand by the previous name.
Continuing the ‘my day’ stuff, before my day, there was a pier in Cardiff, and, when I moved to the Great Pacific Northwest, SEASIDE TRAILER PARK was not yet a parking lot. AND, and, yes, I did once surf there, on a Sunday afternoon, with DONALD TAKAYAMA the only other surfer in the water.
NOT bragging, but grateful.
“ERWIN” THE MOVIE news:
Not sure this will work. I have the cheapest WordPress account, and didn’t think I could have videos. I ran into JASON QUEEN, both of us getting skunked. He stumbled onto the beach and into this video by Annie Fergerson. The link I previously posted no longer works. Possibly because the video was picked up and shown as part of the PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL and was part of the worldwide SAVE THE WAVES festivals, Jason seemed to believe there is some fame attached to being in it. YES, there is now a sub-genre of videos featuring old surfers still at it, but, no, I don’t seem to have any lingering side effects of my notoriety.
All I was really trying to do was post the link. If you haven’t seen this, yes, I do realize there’s a bit of comic relief here, and, yes and again, I do realize my level of ridiculousness. I just keep trying to rise above it. OR, maybe it’s part of my evil scheme to get a few more waves in a crowd.
GRIPES AND HYPES, and any comments, write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
INSTAGRAM ME- realsurfersdotnet
HEY, if I can, indeed, post videos, I might try putting up another page with some MUSICAL ERWIN stuff. FUN. Hope you’re getting enough waves that you won’t be there when I go the next time. Nothing personal. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY to those I love, and to all lovers. HAPPY HATERS’ DAY (whenever that is- seems to be most days) to all the haters.
There is no top to love short of heaven, no bottom to hate. The difference between love and hate is the difference between flying and falling. It’s where you land. Oh, yes, and how you land.
Real Surfers 